castles in the air
by Kiyoshi Kitana
Summary: Hearing the call of his name, tinged with a familiar accent, Matthew's eyes settle on two figures directly across from him and— oh, how had he not noticed them before? [rus/can/ame][dream states]


Looking around this room, Matthew isn't sure how he got here. Or even where 'here' quite is. It's familiar to him in a way, a mashup of his home, Alfred's home, and yet some other... unknown. Hearing the call of his name, tinged with a familiar accent, Matt's eyes settle on two figures directly across from him and— _oh_, how had he not noticed them before?

In front of him, sitting on a sofa that's curiously similar to Alfred's one in NY - Matt's favourite, because he always finds himself sinking into it pleasantly - is the blonde American himself, nude and perched on the lap of—

_Matvey, you are coming, yes?_

Ivan, in his gold-coloured turtleneck, fitted dark pants and darker boots, spreads his legs wider, gestures to his unoccupied thigh. Matthew's heart speeds up; his mind is full of half-formed questions as he stares at Russia. America. Alfred's tanned skin, strong arms, stronger thighs, balancing on and pressed up against Ivan. Ivan, pale as beautiful as porcelain, nearly twice the size of Alfred with one hand curling possessively over the swell of the blonde's ass.

Matt feels a pull in his groin, instant, hot. Alfred smiles at him, winks in that charming way of his and mouths, _come on, Matty_. It rings through his ears, in his chest, and before Matthew can think on it, he's sliding on to Ivan's lap as well, the space made just for him, Ivan's arm now cradling him the same as America. He looks up at Ivan, into passionate violet eyes not dissimilar to his own, feels more inexplicable heat building up inside of him.

Matthew's attention is pulled away from Ivan by Alfred leaning toward him, taking his face into his hands and forcibly turning his gaze. Al's glasses are gone so there's no barrier between Matt and those baby blues, shockingly bright, drawing the Canadian's breath right out of his body. It doesn't come back, it can't come back, not with Al's lips now covering his own, warm, soft, opening invitingly. Alfred's tongue is just as warm, soft, and Matthew leans now to chase it down, balancing himself with a firm grip on Al's knees.

He can feel Al's moans reverberating through him, his cock throbbing with each little hum of pleasure, Alfred's hands tangled up in his hair as they suck on each other's tongues, barely parting for air. Matthew's whole body is thrumming with desire and he's hit with a wave of want so hard he moans straight into America's mouth when Ivan's hand - chilly, it makes him shiver too - gropes the side of his thigh, drags blunt fingernails all the way up to his hips.

_So very pretty, North America is. Much more pretty together than apart._

Matt wriggles, hot, horny, on Ivan's lap, steadied by Ivan's hand and Alfred's mouth and Ivan's words snaking through him. He's making such embarrassing noises, he can hear them, feel Al sucking them right out of his mouth, but he's so aroused it hurts, pleasure rocking through him sharp-sweet. There are more of Ivan's words coiling inside of him, telling him of his beauty, his sweetness, the thick Russian accent so calm, so sure. He could break apart here and it would be perfectly okay, the realization throbs in his chest.

He just might.

Going down, down, Matthew's following Alfred's mouth, the push of Ivan's broad palm on his shoulder until all of North America is nestled between Russian thighs. Al's skin is blissfully warm in all the places they are pressed together; Matt feels himself being pulled in tandem with Alfred to Ivan's cock, breathtakingly large and oh, even more than he wants America's tongue in his mouth, he wants _this_.

He somehow manages to get both; Alfred's tongue skates over his, over Ivan's cock, and Matthew's focus narrows down to the just the desire thumping through his body, stringing tighter, tighter as his lips slip and slide. Ivan's praises slip from accented English to Russian and Matthew knows, somewhere deep, that he doesn't know a drop of Russian, but he understands every honeyed word.

_Such hungry mouths, Matvey and Fredka. Certainly it is only I you two are desperate for._

Matthew's agreement vibrates inside of him, comes out of him in the form of climbing back into Ivan's lap, pressing his back into that broad chest. It's easy, sinfully easy, for him to splay his legs wide and let Ivan press into him, fill him up until his whole body aches with pleasure. He opens his eyes - they were closed? - and Alfred's climbing on top of him, sinking down on to his cock shuddering, heavy, hot, mouth closing on his again.

He's rocking between them, filling, filled, everything fuzzy and dull but the ecstasy rolling through him. Squirming, so warm, he's so close he wants to cry, can't hold in the nonsensical pleas rattling in his throat so he imprints them across Al's mouth instead—

Matthew wakes with a start, a breathless _oh my god_ on the tip of his tongue. He unclenches his fingers, all tangled up in his blanket, and blinks and blinks and blinks again.

"What the hell was that," he breathes out shakily, rolling on his stomach to press his face into his pillow. His boxers are damp, clinging to his thighs and his cock is still throbbing, sensitive. He feels spent and lazy, yet somehow unsatisfied. With a groan, Matt buries his face deeper into his pillow. There's a hollow, vulnerable feeling in his chest.

There's no way he's going to be able to forget this.


End file.
